


Happy is the home with at least one cat

by amberfox17



Series: The Fluffy Adventures of Catboy Chris [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Animal Traits, Cat Ears, Catboys & Catgirls, Crack, Domestic Fluff, Hybrids, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 15:31:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1693400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberfox17/pseuds/amberfox17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The continuing adventures of catboy Chris and his owner Tom, in which Chris actually does some bodyguarding, the boys have an unexpected visitor and an unwanted trip to the vets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Tom takes a deep breath and steps forward. The wall of noise from the crowd is deafening; he could swear he can feel it, a thick pressure punctuated by thousands of flashing lights from camera phones and TV crews, official photographers and microphones, mobiles and tablets and goodness knows what else. It’s overwhelming, it really is, and this is hardly his first time experiencing it. What it is like for Chris, with his heightened senses and strong instincts?

“You ok?” he asks, glancing at Chris, who is standing close to him as he scans the crowd, just brushing his shoulder against Chris’s chest.

“This is my job,” Chris reminds him, smiling slightly, and although his eyes are huge, pupils dilating and contracting with the flashing lights, ears swivelling as he takes in everything that’s going on, he is calm and relaxed and unruffled by the din. “You’ve got fifteen minutes for autographs and then we have to get inside. No interviews out here and don’t get too close to the barriers.”

“Yes, boss,” Tom mutters and Chris bumps against him lightly as he moves towards the crowd of screaming fans. He does as much as he can, talking and posing and signing frantically, ignoring Chris’s instructions about the barrier. There are just so many, all calling his name and desperate for his attention, and in what seems likes barely a minute Chris is back at his side, one hand one his elbow and the other at the small of his back.

“Time to go,” he says, mouth close to Tom’s ear so he can hear him, and if Tom had thought the crowd was excited before, it erupts into absolute bedlam as Tom leans back into Chris to hear him better.

“Is he your -?” asks the delighted girl in front of him as he hastily finishes signing her fanart, vaguely aware of the multitude of phones all recording him as he does so.

“He’s my Chris, yeah,” he says vaguely, smiling into as many lenses as he can pick out. “I’m sorry, I have to go now, thank you -” and as Chris firmly leads him away, his grip professional but possessive, he’s aware of the sudden flurry of interest in them from the press. Well, he’d be the first to admit that Chris is rather spectacular to look at, and while there are plenty of Canine bodyguards shadowing the other guests, Chris is the only Feline doing the same job, and he certainly stands out, looking even more handsome than usual in his tailored suit. Tom would want to take his picture too.

He’d been a little worried about bringing Chris alone to the award ceremony – which is a bit silly, really, given that the whole reason he had taken on a Hybrid was because he needed a bodyguard-cum-publicist for these events. He has a busy period coming up, what with his run on stage in the West End just around the corner, and the _Good Omens_ press tour and premier looming towards the end of the year. He’s going to need Chris on form for all it, and this short, relatively low-key night seemed an excellent opportunity to see how he would cope with working with Tom.

He knows Chris is trained for exactly this line of work and he has plenty of excellent references for public events and minding celebrities and business magnates and yet he had still hesitated to bring Chris along. It just seems such a hostile environment for a Feline, even one as unique as Chris. But, yet again, he has underestimated him: Chris is doing an excellent job and is all business, gently shepherding Tom from location to location, a quiet and relatively unobtrusive presence at his side, doing far better than most of Tom’s previous colleagues in keeping him on track.

Inside, it’s a blur of suits and designer dresses, and that goes for the Hybrids as well as their Owners. Tom has never seen so many in one place; even at the Café in Tokyo there were only a dozen or so, but here, it seems practically everyone has one. You’d think with so many Canines and Felines in close proximity the atmosphere would be thick with tension, but actually, the Hybrids are more at ease than an good many of their Owners, and since no Hybrid can metabolise alcohol, a lot less rowdy.

“Ben and Martin are here,” Chris says softly, flicking his tongue over his lips as he scents the air. “And Hayley and Idris.”

“Good, good,” Tom says, looking around; he can’t see anyone he actually knows in the press of the crowd, but he’ll take Chris’s word for it. “Do you want a drink?”

“I’ll get them,” Chris says instantly. “Wine or beer?”

“A beer, I think,” Tom says, mindful of how long it is since he last ate. Chris nods and begins to push his way through to the bar. Tom watches with interest as he squeezes past a large German Shepherd Canine and what looks like a Labrador – both of whom are actually _smaller_ than Chris – and he notes that despite both Canines being keenly aware of Chris, ears pricking forward as they inhale slowly, neither actually look at him or react in any other way. Consummate professionals, every one of them; if only the same could be said for everyone else in the business!

He’s never really paid much attention to Hybrids at events before, but now he has Chris, he is fascinated by the sheer variety of breeds he can spot mingling in the crowd. He recognises one or two from the Agency’s portfolio, back when he first met Chris – he sees the Spaniel half of the Canine pair he’d liked the look of, talking animatedly with a pair of older gentlemen; a striking ginger Scottish fold, whose mane of hair and plush tail are set off by the forest green of her gown, and Robert, the Burmese charmer, who is just as vocal as Jaimie had said, and is holding court amidst a throng of admirers.

“Here you go,” Chris says as he reappears through the crowd, holding out Tom’s drink, and Tom can’t help smiling broadly at him. The Hybrids and celebrities all around them are beautiful, yes, but they don’t hold a candle to his Chris, and there’s no-one he’d rather be here with. It’s quite a treat for him, actually, bringing someone along. He’s almost always solo at these kinds of things – or, rather, he _used_ to be solo, he thinks with a warm glow. Now, he’s got Chris.

“Thank you for coming with me,” he says, letting his fingers brush over Chris’s as he takes his beer.

“This is my job,” Chris says again, looking slightly confused. “I’m supposed to come with you.”

Tom smiles at him. “You’re here to look after me, yes,” he says, blinking slowly at Chris in what passes for a Feline peck on the cheek. “But you’re also here as my date.”

“Oh,” Chris says, looking even more confused, but quite happy about it. “So no-one else will come home with us tonight?”

Tom chokes on his beer. “No!” he says when he’s finished coughing. “God, no.”

“Good,” Chris says with a grin. “I won’t share you, you know. You’re mine.”

“Right,” Tom says, eyes watering a little, and decides he doesn’t actually want to keep up this line of conversation. Whatever Chris’s previous Owners were like is irrelevant; what matters is that he and Chris have a very different kind of relationship. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s mingle.”

Chris nods and slides into place beside him, coolly efficient again, but this time, he places a possessive arm around Tom’s waist as he steers him unerringly towards Hayley and Idris, his hand curled on Tom’s hip, and Tom smiles softly to himself. Everything is going fine.

***

The ceremony and after-party fly by in a blur of laughter and frantic dancing – at least on Tom’s part. By the end of the night he’s pleasantly tipsy as Chris helps him into a waiting taxi, but not too drunk, and his expansive good mood is as much a result of good company as what he’s had to drink. He’s had more fun with Chris at his side than he ever has before – not that he doesn’t enjoying going out with his friends, but it’s just – everything is better when Chris is there – even if he wouldn’t dance – and he, he just – Chris is just so... _great_.

There’s a good chance he says this out loud, and probably more than once, because he keeps seeing the flash of Chris’s toothy grin in the shadows of the backseat, and he’s vaguely aware of the driver’s grunt of annoyance when he gives into temptation and chases Chris’s mouth with his own. Sod him, he thinks, he must get this all the time, and he’s vaguely thrilled when Chris gently kisses him back, a restrained, closed mouth affair despite Tom’s efforts to the contrary. He _will_ teach Chris to kiss properly, he decides, but he’s equally happy to have Chris lean against him, rubbing their cheeks together and purring softly.

He’s so busy trying to unbutton Chris’s fiddly dress shirt he somehow misses them arriving home and leaving the taxi; he blinks and then sits up and realises that they have been mysteriously transported to the bedroom and somewhere along the line he’s lost his suit jacket and trousers.

“Tom,” Chris says, mock-serious, “you are drunk.”

“Amnot,” Tom says, forgetting to pause between the words. “Why are you clothes?”

There’s something wrong with that sentence, but it doesn’t seem worth correcting, not when there’s an absolutely infuriating shirt to attack. Chris doesn’t seem to mind his wandering hands, or the fact that he ends up slumped against Chris with his head on his shoulder, doing his best impression of a purr.

“Humans,” Chris sighs into his ear as Tom nips at his neck, but he sounds fond rather than exasperated. The first time Tom got drunk with him he had been desperately uncomfortable, keenly aware of Chris’s sobriety and worried about how he would act. But Chris seems entertained by his drunken handsiness and had brushed off Tom’s concerns. His only complaint is the smell of hops on Tom’s breath.

Tom, for his part, is more than happy for Chris to respond to his advances, and very, very happy when Chris takes over the quite impossible task of getting them both naked. Now he’s lying down he suddenly feels very sleepy and he needs to concentrate carefully on Chris. It would be terrible if he fell asleep before –

***

Tom wakes up with a sudden snort, dislodging Chris’s head from his chest as he flails to life.

“Oh, shit,” he says, a little dizzy. “Chris?”

Chris’s eyes are luminous in the faint light cast by the streetlights outside, glowing like distant stars and just as entrancing.

His snigger is less so.

“You fell asleep,” he points out unnecessarily as Tom groans into his hands. “You were _very_ drunk.”

“I’m sorry,” Tom says between his fingers, aware of a heavy pressure in both his head and groin. He’s not drunk anymore, but he’s not quite come out the other side yet either, and the slight ache in his head promises the morning will be far too quick in coming. On the other hand, it seems that he’s been sleeping pressed tightly against Chris’s warm thigh, and he’s more than ready to pick up where they left off. “Will you let me make it up to you?”

“I suppose,” Chris says with a yawn, fangs gleaming, tongue an elegant pink curl.

“You did an excellent job tonight – last night,” Tom amends, shifting in the dark so he can run his hands over Chris’s body, mapping out his planes and curves in the gloom. “Thank you.”

Chris wriggles, a whole body shrug. “It’s my job,” he says. “I like looking after you. I like watching you dance.”

Tom laughs, a little self-consciously. “Glad you like the flailing,” he says, remembering Chris’s intense stare and twitching tailtip from the sidelines as he had whirled and gyrated, wildly over-enthusiastic as always. “You should dance with me next time.”

Chris makes an urgent sound in the back of his throat. “I like watching you,” he says and Tom’s skin prickles with excitement. _That’s_ something to think about. But right now, he owes Chris, and he has something else in mind.

He settles himself between Chris’s spread thighs, hands resting lightly on his chest, and bends over him so he can kiss and lick at Chris’s throat, careful not to box him in or make him feel trapped. Chris tips his head back and Tom nips at the stubble, drags his tongue over Chris’ adam’s apple and huffs heavily into the hollow of his throat, and Chris rumbles his approval.

He moves lower, licking a slow trail over Chris’s collarbones and shoulders, rubbing his mouth and cheeks over Chris’s thick biceps, kissing the thin skin of his forearms, nipping playfully on his fingers with just enough pressure that he can feel Chris’s claws extending. He places a kiss on each palm and then he works his way back up, licking over Chris’s downy hair, inhaling deeply at his pressure points, kissing his taut stomach and nuzzling his flanks.

Tom’s always been keen on foreplay, on pleasing his partner, and he absolutely loves worshipping Chris’s body in this way, tracing his muscles with his tongue and feeling every twitch, every sigh as Chris luxuriates in this treatment. But this is more than just play for Chris: Tom is grooming him, covering him in his scent, and though Tom can’t smell or taste anything himself, he knows that this is both reassuring and exciting for Chris and always makes him happy.

Tom does a complete circuit of Chris’s body front and back before he even reaches for Chris’s cock, which is by now flushed and drooling a steady stream of pre-come. Chris meows softly when Tom dips his head to lap at his heavy balls before inching his way up the thick shaft and he gives a choked off cry as Tom’s lips close over the head. Chris likes Tom to be wet and sloppy and Tom knows exactly what to give him, slurping noisily at Chris’s cock and humming as best he can, trying to make his throat vibrate like Chris’s. He fails miserably, every time, but Chris seems pleased by the effort and more so by Tom’s happy murmuring, and so Tom gasps and moans and murmurs around the cock in his mouth, and lets Chris actually do the bulk of the work, pistoning his hips and cock up and into Tom.

He gets one hand around Chris’s shaft so he can stroke him in time with his thrusts, and sneaks the other around to squeeze Chris’s ass cheeks and knead at the base of his tail, and with Chris over-sensitised and trembling, it doesn’t take much more before he is coming with a yowl, sharp claws scratching at the bedding.

Tom’s barely swallowed before he’s being tugged up and flung on his back and a wildly happy Chris is repeating the favour, dragging his rough tongue over Tom in a cursory groom before lapping hungrily at his cock, purring like thunder the entire time, and Tom shakes apart with the taste of Chris in his mouth and his hands tight in his soft hair. This time, he’s more than happy to slide back into sleep with Chris a solid, warm weight beside him, an arm and a thigh thrown proprietarily over him despite the warm night.

***

The next morning, when he wakes again, Tom is not hungover. He’s really, really not. He’s just a bit dehydrated and has a little bit of a headache and – well, anyway, this is the fourth time he’s woken up in as many hours, and while it might be 11am, he’s still not inclined to accept the new day. Chris is snoring with a funny wheezy purr that means he’s not getting up anytime soon, and he’s curled into an inviting s-curve that has a space between his arms exactly right for Tom to snuggle in to. He’s going to get up, just for a minute, to get another drink and some tablets, and then he’s coming back to bed and he has every intention of pretty much staying there all day. With this glorious prospect forefront in his mind, Tom stumbles out of the bedroom and through the lounge – and freezes.

There is a strange Feline in the flat.

He’s obviously come in through the window, which Tom dimly remembers opening for some fresh air on his last exodus from the bed, and Tom’s caught him just as he was headed towards the kitchen area. The Feline stays stock-still and stares at Tom, eyes huge. He’s not unlike Chris, tall and broad and blonde, with piercing blue eyes; for a moment Tom wonders if he’s another Van but he flicks his plush tail and no, he’s definitely a different breed. He’s not wearing a collar.

“Hi,” Tom says, keenly aware he is naked and faced with a large man with sharp teeth and claws. “Uh, who are you?”

“Travis,” mutters the Feline; he looks more scared than aggressive, but why is he here? To steal? He’s not carrying a bag and has nothing in his hands.

“Why are you in my flat, Travis?” Tom asks.

“Looking for someone,” is the low, embarrassed reply. “Sorry.”

“Ok...” Tom says slowly, edging closer to the sofa so he can pick up the blanket and fashion a wrap out of it. “Well, I’d rather you weren’t in my flat so, uh, would you mind leaving?”

“Sorry,” Travis says again, looking almost as embarrassed as Tom feels, and he slinks from the window towards the door, crouching low and giving Tom a wide berth.

He’s halfway to the door when Chris’s growl reverberates through the room. Tom looks over his shoulder and Chris is stalking out of the bedroom, ears flat and tail fluffed out like a bottlebrush, teeth bared as the low rumbling growl climbs up the register into a furious yowl.

Travis drops his head and crouches, ears swivelling to the side, tail tucking around his body, and bares his teeth back, making a strangled noise halfway between fury and fear.

“He’s leaving,” Tom says firmly to Chris. “Chris, he’s going. It’s fine.”

Chris doesn’t even look at Tom, but keeps on advancing towards Travis, yowl growing ever louder. Tom thinks about getting between them, but remembers Martin and the explosive chase. Better to stay clear, he decides, and shoo Travis out when he bolts. Besides, this is his and Chris’s home; Chris has every right to scare off intruders, and a good scare will probably stop the intrepid Travis coming back.

The two Felines have reached a stalemate, about a foot apart, both posturing and both yowling angrily. Tom takes a step toward the door, to get it open for when Travis flees, but as soon as he moves Travis attacks.

The two slam into each other with bruising force, screaming in fury, wrestling and clawing and biting, tufts of fur flying as Chris rakes Travis’s face from eye to ear, Travis kicking Chris hard in the stomach and cuffing him on the side of the head. It’s vicious and bloody and shocking and it takes Tom precious seconds to react.

“Stop it! Stop it!” he shouts, but as quickly as it started it’s over, Travis breaking away and bolting – but not for the door, for the open window, leaping from the sill, Chris hard on his heels.

“Chris!” Tom screams, because they are two stories up, and he rushes to the window, terrified by the trail of blood. Chris and Travis have landed safely and are scuffling again, making a horrific racket, Chris completely naked, Travis’s t-shirt clawed to shreds.

Tom rushes back into the bedroom to yank on his jeans and shoes and throw on a jumper, meaning to get downstairs and somehow break them up, before they do some real damage or the police are called, but abruptly the noise stops and there’s a heavy thud in the living room.

It’s Chris: he’s jumped up to the open window as Travis must have done, a twenty-foot standing leap. He’s covered in bites and scratches and bruises but there don’t seem to be any deep wounds.

“I won,” he says groggily and then slumps to the floor and starts licking at his lacerated forearm.

“Shit,” Tom says, rushing over, trying to check Chris over, noting the clumps of fur missing from his tail and the teeth marks on his ear. “Shit – Chris – are you ok?”

“I won,” Chris says again, giving Tom a half-hearted headbutt.

“Yes, I can see that,” Tom says exasperatedly, and stands to shut and lock the window, having a good look out as he does so. Travis is nowhere to be seen. Hopefully he’s gone home to be patched up; Tom will go and check he’s not lying somewhere hurt later, but right now his priority is Chris.

He retrieves the first aid kit from under the sink and carefully cleans Chris up, a process made more difficult by the way Chris flinches away from the disinfectant wipes and keeps trying to lick himself. The scratches and bites are mostly shallow, but there’s some nasty bruising, and Tom is not taking any chances, so he covers Chris in bandages and plasters before settling him on the sofa since Chris refuses to go into the bedroom.

It takes him a bit of searching but he eventually finds the insurance paperwork from when he first got Chris, and finds the number for the Hybrid Clinic Chris is registered with. The woman on the phone is calm and sympathetic, and advises Tom to bring Chris in for the drop-in clinic tomorrow morning at 8a.m.

“It doesn’t sound like he needs the out-of-hours doctor,” she says as Tom describes his injuries. “The call-out fee for the weekend is horrendous. Give him plenty of fluids and make sure he rests, and we’ll see him tomorrow.”

Tom hangs up and sighs. Remarkably, the flat is pretty much intact, but he sweeps up the stray tufts of hair and fur, keeping an eye on the sofa. Chris is lying flat out on his belly, eyes fixed on the window, ears swivelling at every sound.

“I can smell him,” he growls, tail swinging from side to side.

“He’s gone,” Tom says reassuringly, giving him a quick pet, but Chris shrugs him off irritably and just keeps staring at the window, rubbing his chin and cheeks on the sofa arm. Scent-marking, Tom thinks, and then he remembers that tom cats spray to mark their territory, especially when they feel under threat. Chris has never been anything but human in his bathroom habits but he’s clearly unsettled and well, spraying is not something Tom wants to _ever_ have to deal with.

Tom goes and fetches the bleach.

Half an hour later the flat reeks of lemon and acrid chemicals but Chris seems a little calmer, or at least repulsed enough by the overpowering smell to finally stop staring at the window and retire to the bedroom, although he takes a circular route so he can rub along the worktops, the furniture and especially along the window sill. Tom watches him like a hawk.

Once in the bedroom, Chris sprawls out on the bed and goes to sleep. Tom hesitates, but he seems fine, so he quickly slips out and spends a fruitless ten minutes checking the alleyway and gardens around the building. There is no sign of Travis, although he does found some shredded t-shirt remains that he conscientiously picks up and throws in the outside bin.

Back in the flat, Chris remains asleep, although his eyes crack open and his ears twitch as Tom lets himself in. Tom risks another quick head-scratch, but Chris doesn’t respond, so he leaves him be and starts googling ‘cat fights’ and then, after thinking for a moment, changes it to ‘pet cat aggression’ and finds more helpful results. There’s plenty of information and advice out there about why and how cats fight, and it’s fairly obvious that what happened between Chris and Travis was a territorial dispute, but there are no reports of Hybrids fighting, bar a rather unsettling expose on some unsavoury Owners who had started a fight club for their Canines - resulting in criminal prosecution for the Owners and rehabilitation for the Canines, Tom is relieved to read.

He can’t help wondering about Travis though: there’s no such thing as a stray Hybrid, as they’re all registered on an international database and microchipped as soon as possible after birth. They’re just too rare and expensive for one to simply wander off and go missing. Travis has an Owner, he’s certain of it, but what kind of Owner would let him wander around without a collar? And what kind of Hybrid would be so unsocialised as to think climbing into other people’s houses came under the definition of ‘looking for someone’?

Tom isn’t sure. But he can’t quite settle for the rest of the afternoon, and keeps catching himself eyeing the window, just in case. If he’s this rattled, what must Chris be feeling?

Chris doesn’t move all day, except to lap at the glasses of water Tom leaves by the bed, and by the evening Tom is getting worried. He manages to get Chris to eat by wafting his tea under his nose, but even with prime cuts of beef on offer, Chris is too lethargic to move, and Tom ends up feeding him in bed, holding the plate steady as Chris picks at his food. He tries to have a check of Chris’s injuries, but the moment he lays a hand on the bandage Chris snarls and pulls away, and Tom judges it best to leave him be. There’s no more bleeding, as far as he can see, and no inflammation or swelling – it’s just sore and Chris is in a foul mood.

Still, Tom doesn’t want to leave him, so he settles in beside him with a book rather than sit in the lounge. Chris huffs irritably, but once Tom is in place beside him, carefully leaving as wide a gap as he can manage, he rolls over and places his chin on Tom’s leg.

“How are you feeling?” Tom asks, gently running his fingers through Chris’s hair.

“Tired,” is the snappy reply, but as Chris moves he whimpers a little and Tom doesn’t have the heart to keep bothering him.

“Get some sleep,” he says. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

***

In the morning, Chris is indeed feeling better – well enough to put up a hell of a struggle when he realises Tom is taking him to the clinic.

“I’m fine,” he hisses, pupils contacted to slits and claws dug in the arm of the sofa. “I’m not going.”

“We’re going to be late,” Tom says firmly, ignoring Chris’s nonsense. “Let go of the sofa.”

“No!” Chris shouts, back arching as Tom tries to drag him by the arm. “No! You can’t make me!”

He might have a point there, Tom thinks; Chris is heavy and strong and he’s not convinced he _can_ make him do anything. “Chris, stop it,” he says, putting some real bite into his tone. “We’re going to get you checked over and we have to leave now. Stop being difficult.”

He feels likes he’s talking to a toddler, and the feeling only intensifies when Chris glares mutinously up at him, bottom lip pushed out in a pout.

“I hate the clinic,” he whines, tail thrashing through the air. “Don’t make me go there.”

“Chris, get UP!” Tom shouts, patience snapping, and to his amazement, Chris actually obeys.

“I hate you,” he hisses as he gets to his feet, “I _hate_ you -”

“Stop that,” Tom says, rubbing at his face, heart sinking. “Chris, that’s a cruel thing to say. I’m only trying to help.”

“But I’m fine,” Chris whinges as Tom gets his coat, doing his best to ignore the palaver Chris is making of putting his shoes on. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. And I won!”

It clearly can’t hurt much, if Chris has the energy for all this, Tom reflects. But he’d been sluggish and hurting last night, and Tom wants to be sure there is no real damage or infection. “Coat,” he snaps, holding out Chris’s leather jacket at arm’s length, and after a long moment staring at it like it’s going to bite him, Chris takes it and shrugs it on – and hah, now, Tom’s got him, for he winces a little as he moves.

“I hate you,” Chris says again, but his fire has died down, and he is merely sulky.

“I love you,” Tom returns, a little sharply; he wishes Chris would stop saying that. “Though right now, you’re not making it easy. Come on.”

Chris stares flatly at him but allows Tom to shoo him out the door and down to the taxi, whose driver is not best pleased at being kept waiting. Well, neither is Tom, and it’s stony silences all around as they wind their way through London to the neat, modern-built clinic with its frosted glass doors and discreet signage.

As the taxi pulls away, Tom unbends enough to chuck Chris under the chin. Now they are here, all Chris’s bravado has melted away and he looks terrified, ears pinned back and tail curling between his legs. He’s pulled in on himself, as if he’s trying to make himself smaller – it’s not working, not at all, but he is radiating fear and stress, and Tom feels a stab of guilt for shouting at him.

“It’s okay,” he soothes, scratching at Chris’s stubble. “We won’t be long. I’ll look after you.”

Chris gives a little mewl and Tom makes sure to keep a hand on him as he leads him into the reception.

Inside, the clinic is just as bright and airy as it looked from the outside, all creams and lightly speckled marble, and almost deserted. Tom had been expecting a public waiting room, like the doctors or the vets, but this is a cut above: they are shown immediately through to a private room, and asked to wait there for the specialist to come to them. Oddly, being in a more confined space seems to settle Chris a little, and though he remains hunched into his chair, pressed up against Tom, his ears come up and he looks around with some interest at the examining table, white cupboards and colourful posters. There’s a few pamphlets neatly stacked on the windowsill, but before Tom can investigate them, the door opens and the specialist arrives. Top class service, indeed; Tom dreads to think what this place would cost without insurance.

“Hi there!” the specialist announces with a strong American accent, bright and cheerful despite the way Chris is glowering at her. “My name is Dr. Kat Dennings, and I’ll be looking after you today.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Tom says, shaking her hand. “I’m Tom and this is Chris.”

“Hemsworth Van, right?” Kat says, beaming at them. “Wow, first gen rare breed. Never thought I’d see one in the flesh. I saw the photos from the awards thingy this week – he’s a real looker, this one. Did you know you two are trending on twitter?”

Tom gawps a little a that before remembering his manners and demurring politely. They’re trending? The awards were the night before last! Chris says nothing, and without prompting, slowly takes his coat and t-shirt off and gets on the examination table. Tom isn’t sure what to make of this, nor the fact that Kat continues to chat idly to _him_ as Chris does so and she gets various bits and pieces together.

“You’re getting on alright with him?” Kat asks him as she eventually approaches Chris. “He’s a handful, or so I hear.”

It’s a desperately uncomfortable question when Chris is _right there_. “We get on great,” Tom replies after a moment’s thought, doing his best to catch Chris’s eye and smile. “But as you can see, he’s been in a fight, and I just want to be sure he’s okay.”

“Sure,” Kat says, finally turning her attention to Chris, who holds himself stiffly as she lets out a low whistle. “We have been in the wars, haven’t we,” she says as she checks Chris over, carefully examining each scratch and bruise. “Do I want to know what happened to the other guy?”

It takes Tom a moment to realise she’s talking to him again. “Oh, um, I’m not sure,” he says awkwardly. “He was another Feline – I caught him in our flat and was asking him to leave when Chris saw him. There was a bit of a scuffle -”

 “Uh huh,” Kat says, lips pursed. “Let me guess. Big, blonde, not too dissimilar to Chris here?”

“Yes,” Tom replies. “Said his name was -”

“Travis?” Kat finishes. “Why am I not surprised?”

“You know him?”

“Oh, yeah, far too well,” Kat says with a grin. “But this is the first time I’ve had one of his sparring partners in – he’s more bark than bite, usually. Or meow, I suppose.”

“So what’s his story? Is he a stray?”

“No, no,” Kat says as she continues to work on Chris, swabbing and disinfecting and so on, far more efficiently than Tom had managed yesterday. “He’s owned by a lovely couple, George and Katheryn, and normally they can keep a handle on him. Trouble is, Katheryn works away from time to time, and she’s the one he’s imprinted on. George is half his size, bless him, and Travis walks all over him. He’s got something of a rebellious streak! Actually breaking in to someone’s else’s flat is way out of line, though, as is getting in a fight. He’s startled a fair few people before, just by popping up unexpectedly and posturing a bit, but this is something else. I’ll call George and we’ll have to refer him on.”

“Refer him where?” Tom asks; he thinks Travis definitely needs taking in hand, but he doesn’t want him to lose his Owners. He didn’t do any harm, not really, and the fight was as much Chris as him.  

“We’ve got a behavioural specialist attached to the clinic,” Kat says reassuringly. “One of the best Hybrid psychologists in the world. Don’t feel bad, it’s been a long time coming, and he’s clearly escalating every time Katheryn goes away. I think they ought to find him a companion Hybrid, but Dr. Portman will do the assessment and work with them to settle him down. Unless you were looking to have him removed from their care..?”

“Oh, no,” Tom says quickly. “I mean, I’m not happy he came into the flat and fought with Chris, but really, he wasn’t looking for trouble, and I just hope George and Katheryn can work it out with him.”

“I’ll claw his eyes out if he ever comes into my territory again,” Chris says sullenly, and Tom shushes him.

“George will be mortified when I tell him what Travis has done,” Kat says, giving Chris’s ears a quick fondle but otherwise ignoring his comment. “He’ll want to apologise, I’m sure.”

“That’s fine, really,” Tom says, picturing this George bringing Travis round to apologise and setting off _another_ brawl in his building. “Honestly, I’d rather just forget it ever happened, as long as Chris is fine.”

“I told you this morning I was fine,” Chris says irritably. “I want to go home.”

“Somebody’s Mr. Grumpypants,” Kat says in a singsong voice and Chris scowls at her. “But he’s right. He doesn’t need stitches; I’ll give him an anti-inflammatory and antibiotic shot, just to be sure, but Travis doesn’t have any health problems to worry about, and Hybrids generally are pretty resistant.”

Chris cowers at the word ‘shot’ and for a heartbeat, Tom is certain he is about to make a break for it. He moves closer and leans against Chris, who huffs and looks away as Kat prepares a syringe and dabs at the crook of Chris’s arm.

“Just a slight sting,” she says, and Tom covers Chris’s hand with his own. He’s not bothered by needles himself, but his mum has never been keen, and he’s not surprised Chris is just as uncomfortable with them. He’d flicked through Chris’s medical history back in the early days, and it seems that as a new breed, he and his brothers spent a lot of time in clinics like this one when they were small.

“All done,” Kat says, taping a cotton wool ball to the tiny wound. “Not so bad, hmm, big guy?”

Chris makes a strange gargling noise, which Tom interprets as an impolite ‘yes, it was’. Kat grins but refrains from commenting as she clears everything away and produces an official looking form. She fills it out at speed, in a loose scrawl, before handing it over. “Right, Tom, if you can just sign here, and here,” she says briskly, gesturing at the relevant Owner’s boxes. Tom does his best to read it, but it’s largely gobbledygook to him. “Will he need a follow up? Or any aftercare?” he asks, handing the pad back, and Kat shakes her head.

“Go on, get him out of here,” she says to Tom, and flattens herself against the wall as Chris bolts from the examination table and flings open the door, still shirtless. “Do bring him back if he seems listless or his appetite declines, but right now, he’s got a clean bill of health from me. If you decide you do want an update on Travis, get in touch with the Agency – it’s a small world of Hybrids and Owners in London, they’ll know exactly who you mean and why you’re asking.”

“Thank you,” Tom says, hastily grabbing their things and waving goodbye as he chases Chris through reception and out the door. Not his most dignified exit; he’ll call later to apologise.

“I _hate_ that place,” Chris hisses once he finally catches up, tail still fluffed up like a bottle brush. “Don’t take me there again.”

“I only took you to make sure you were ok,” Tom says firmly, handing Chris his shirt and coat. As Chris dresses in jerky movements quite unlike his normal grace, it’s clear that he is still rattled, and so Tom slides his palm over Chris’s back just as the t-shirt covers it, from the nape of his neck down to just above his waist, and the familiar touch seems to calm him. “Come on, I’ll take you for breakfast to make it up to you.”

“Bacon?” Chris says, instantly perking up. “And sausage? And more bacon?”

Tom smiles and agrees, and as they set off towards a café for a lardy breakfast, a weight lifts from his chest as Chris relaxes back into his usual self, talking and bouncing and chirruping at interesting birds and things that catch his eye. A few bruises and scrapes are nothing to worry about. Everything is fine.

***

About a week later, Tom’s not so sure.

Oh, Chris’s cuts and bruises heal cleanly, there are no issues there; Troublesome Travis makes no further appearances, though the hapless George does send a lovely bunch of flowers and chocolates with an apology card, via the Hybrid Agency. Jaime delivers them herself, wanting to look in on Chris and see for herself that all is well, and also to tease him mercilessly about the photos of him and Chris that have somehow ended up splashed across the internet. Tom can’t fathom why, but people seem quite keen on the various slightly blurry fan photos of him leaning back as Chris whispers in his ear; Jaimie is hugely amused by this and jokingly offers to pay him commission for wandering about with Chris in public, since the Agency has seen a distinct spike of interest since the awards night.

Aside from this, Tom spends a pleasant hour having a cup of tea with her and chatting about various things, only one of which is Travis and Hybrid behavioural issues. Travis, it turns out, isn’t on the Agency’s books: Katheryn bought him direct from a breeder, which explains some part of the lack of socialisation.

“All our Hybrids are properly trained and acclimatised,” Jaime explains, obligingly dangling a thick piece of ribbon for Chris to bat at from his supine position at her feet. “They’re professionals first, hired for their skills. We did offer to do some work with Travis, actually, but what with one thing or another, it never got sorted out.”

“How do you know about him, if he’s not an Agency Hybrid?” Tom asks curiously.

“We work closely with the Hybrid Registration Council,” Jaime answers, gently but firmly untangling Chris from her shoes. “It’s a small world; to be honest, I could probably name every Hybrid currently in the UK. We’re a tiny market compared to America and Asia. The trouble with Travis is that he was bought as a Companion. He went straight from his birth-home to live with Katheryn and he’s hopelessly over-attached to her.”

“I see,” Tom says, frowning slightly. For all he is referred to the Owner on the paperwork, in truth, he is more of an employer – he pays a monthly fee for Chris’s contract, but he’s not bought Chris outright.

“I thought you had to go to an Agency to get a Hybrid,” he says. “And that if you wanted to keep one forever you adopted them, not bought them.”

Jaimie makes a seesawing motion with her hand. “It’s not quite _buying_ ,” she says. “An Agency will sponsor a Hybrid through their education and training, and then make their money back with the monthly contract fee. We adopt them from their breeder – we’re technically Legal Guardians – and it’s possible, in certain circumstances, for a client of ours to then adopt the Hybrid from us. With any Agency, it’s never a case of simply handing over cash for a Hybrid. But with the breeders? Well, the Hybrid is legally theirs from the moment of birth, like a parent and child, and if they are happy to sign the adoption papers, they can give over custody to anyone they like. They talk about administration costs and gratuities and repayment of expenses to cover themselves but really, what’s happening is that the breeder hands the Hybrid over and receives a lump sum in return, and that’s buying and selling as far as I’m concerned.”

“That can’t be legal,” Tom says, horrified at the idea.

“It is at the moment,” Jaimie says grimly. “Hopefully, it will change soon. Not many breeders do it, see, and unless there’s a high-profile problem between Owner and Hybrid, it just never comes to the authorities’ attention.”

“Why would an Owner do it that way?”

“It’s cheaper,” Jaimie says with a sigh. “And a lot of the time, people have the very best intentions. They definitely want a Hybrid, they have no intention of returning them and don’t like the idea that an Agency can revoke the contract at any time and take them back. So they see it as cutting out the middleman. Most of the breeders willing to do it see it the same way. They’re not simply trying to make a profit, bar a few bad apples, and we all know who _they_ are. But the Owners really don’t know what they’re getting in to. Hybrids need a lot of care and attention, especially when they’re young. They benefit hugely from exposure to lots of different people and places.”

Tom doesn’t much like the idea that the Agency can take Chris away from him either, but taking on a Hybrid without any kind of support seems like a huge risk. He’s already had a look at the section of adoption in the back of the advice book, and had a long, hard think about it; it’s a huge step, and one he would never take without discussing it properly with Chris first. If an Owner adopts straight from a breeder, when does the Hybrid themselves have a say in it?

“It’s not a good way to do things,” Jaimie says, sensing Tom’s musings. “Without the socialisation process, a Hybrid ends up with a lot of problems around their relationship with their Owner. Like Travis. You see, to him, Katheryn isn’t just Travis’s Owner. She’s his territory, his home, his whole world. Being without her – even for a short time, even though he has George and he’s still in the same house, the same physical place – he can’t cope with it. All Hybrids get attached, it’s in their nature, but Travis has gone beyond normal levels of dependency, It’s not healthy.”

“He loves her,” Tom supplies. _Does Katheryn love him?_ he wonders. Him _and_ George? How does that relationship work?

Jaimie shoots him an unimpressed look. “I wouldn’t romanticise it like that,” she says disapprovingly. “Hybrids don’t _love_. He’s obsessed with her. He needs help, and with any luck, Dr. Portman will be able to work with all three of them to moderate his intimacy issues. I hope they’ll have the sense to get him a Companion, a properly adjusted Agency Feline, preferably. But it’s hard to change these kinds of behavioural problems this far down the line.”

They lapse into silence for a moment, Tom’s mind racing. Obviously, climbing into strangers’ flats is not acceptable behaviour for anyone, but Travis had clearly said the reason he was doing it was to look for someone – someone being Katheryn, judging by what Jaimie had said. He had been self-aware enough to be embarrassed and to apologise, so he knew his behaviour was wrong – was it that he just couldn’t fight his instincts? He had to find her and couldn’t help seeking out new places, on the minuscule chance she was there?

“I didn’t know Hybrids had these kinds of problems,” he says at last. “I mean, Ben said Martin struggled with being without him, but it didn’t seem that much of a problem.”

“It’s not, usually,” Jaimie says, sitting back. “Canines have issues with being left alone for too long, but their attachments transfer easily. As long as they have _someone_ they’re imprinted on with them, it doesn’t matter who it is, and you can get them to imprint in about 24 hours or so. That’s the whole point of the Agency training – to stop them getting too attached to any one Owner. And Felines are even better at it. You can leave them for days and they’ll be fine, as long as they have a safe space to stay in. That’s why I suggested Chris for you, and not a Canine like Martin. You could leave Chris here for a week, and when you got back, he wouldn’t really have cared that you were gone.”

That’s not true, Tom thinks, shocked. He left Chris for three days to go to Tokyo, and it upset him terribly. Chris _is_ attached to him – Chris loves him. He’s told him so.

Does that mean Chris is ‘obsessed’? That if they find out, the Agency will decide his behaviour is _problematic_ and send him off to a specialist to be cured of loving Tom?

What would they say if Tom told them he loved Chris back? Not just as his Hybrid, but as his Chris, his other half?

It itches at him all through the rest of his conversation with Jaimie and has him on edge all through the afternoon. He tries to talk about Chris about it, but Chris is blithely unconcerned and just keeps repeating that he belongs to Tom, that he loves Tom, and that he wants to stay with him.

“If anyone tries to take me away, I won’t let them,” he says simply, curling himself tightly around Tom and licking at his hair affectionately. Tom hates it when he does that, but recognises that Chris is sensing his distress and trying, in his own way, to be reassuring. “You think too much.”

Maybe he’s right, Tom thinks, angling his head back as Chris licks a steady path from his brow down his cheek and to his throat, a clear sign that he’s done talking and intending to move on to his preferred form of body language. Maybe he’s making a mountain out of a molehill. After all, right now, everything is fine.

Still, he can’t help clinging a little more tightly to Chris afterwards, burying his face in Chris’s warm chest, and as Chris curls around him, resting his chin on Tom’s head and purring softly, he feels a tendril of fear settling into his stomach.

“I love you,” Chris says, and Tom isn’t sure if he imagines a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

“I love you too,” he echoes, voice muffled by Chris’s body. “Now go to sleep.”

But they both lie awake for a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s opening night and anxiety is eating Tom alive. It’s not the play – though the familiar excitement is thrumming in his veins, part fear, part anticipation, it’s the hollow ache in the pit in his stomach that’s bothering him and that is all Chris.

It’s complicated and difficult and he really had no idea what he was getting in to the day he brought Chris home. Things have been unsettled between them ever since Jaime’s visit, not that Tom blames her; they’ve not argued, but the careful conversations, the deliberate consideration and wary affection is actually worse, as Tom bites down on the thoughts buzzing in his brain and Chris retreats further into himself.

He’s not sure what Chris thinks is happening, and that’s because despite the fact they’re talking to each other, they’re not really saying anything. He’s been here before and it’s depressingly easy to slip into the routine: asking how their day was, talking about schedules, who is cooking what for dinner, what to watch on tv – and all the while ignoring the black hole beneath their feet, the long silences that are nothing like their usual easy quiet together.

But what he can say? ‘Chris, I’m worried that you might be over-attached to me?’ Of course Chris will deny it; as a Hybrid he doesn’t have the awareness to realise that he shouldn’t be so obsessed with Tom. It’s Tom’s job as a responsible Owner to police that boundary, to make sure that Chris’s affection is within healthy limits. Quite how the hell he’s supposed to _do_ that, he hasn’t really figured out. A responsible Owner wouldn’t have fallen in love with his Hybrid in the first place, and he doesn’t dare talk to anyone about it, not even Ben, in case it gets back to the Agency and Chris is taken away. But with only his own thoughts for company, he just keeps going round and round in circles: maybe Chris should be removed from Tom – maybe being with Tom is harming him, and Tom shouldn’t be so selfish in keeping him – but how can it be wrong to love Chris and want him to be happy – but is he happy – and how can Tom know?

Maybe Tom is losing his goddamned mind.

Under the circumstances, Tom is grateful for the distraction of the play. The punishing schedule of training and rehearsals eat up his spare time until he feels like he’s breathing, eating and sleeping the text, just the way he likes it, moving steadily into sync with the character he’s bringing to life. It’s easier to focus on being someone else than himself right now, and to answer Chris’s hesitant and half-hearted attempts to talk to him with the constant excuse of being busy. He’d originally imagined Chris coming to the rehearsals with him, helping him with read throughs or generally being an ad-hoc personal assistant-cum-cheerleader, but the truth is he doesn’t want to bring Chris into his escape and Chris is spending more and more time out of the flat on his solitary excursions anyway.

It’s not right, and it can’t go on. Tom’s not stupid: he knows red flags when he sees them. And yet it has, all the way up to this first performance, and now he’s here, tugging at his curls and picking his fingernails like a green drama student, and all because Chris is standing quietly in his dressing room, eyes down and tail listless and flat.

“Will you watch me?” Tom says, because the silence is too damn loud to bear. “There’s a space in the wings if you want to.”

“Do you want me to?” Chris asks and Tom pastes a smile over the wince.

“If you think you’ll like it,” he hedges, wondering where these stilted conversations have come from. “I mean, it’s not really your thing, but I’m pretty excited about the staging, and it’s better than just waiting here, I guess.”

Chris nods, face blank. It was touch and go whether he was going to come at all, but when Tom mentioned that Chris might want to stay home, he’d been met with a sharp reminder that this was why he took Chris on in the first place. Getting in was fine, but he needs some protection coming out, especially during stage door and signing for the fans he knows, without arrogance, will be waiting for him. In fairness, Chris has been wonderfully professional so far tonight, arranging a driver for Tom rather than chance public transport, investigating the route and the likely numbers waiting for them as they leave, a sturdy but unobtrusive presence as Tom arrived, and the rest of the cast and crew have been openly admiring Tom’s stunning Hybrid. It’s only now, when it’s just the two of them, that the cracks become obvious.

“Well, uh, Melanie can show you where you won’t be in the way,” Tom says, stiff smile starting to making his cheeks ache. “I’ve got to get to makeup in a minute, so…”

“You’ll be great,” Chris says, offering a shy smile, and it’s like being slapped. There’s so much on the tip of Tom’s tongue, but even as he tries to figure out what to say, Chris turns and slinks away, to wait in the wings as Tom takes the limelight.

“Fuck,” Tom says viciously to the empty air, and really, that’s about all he can do right now.

***

Waiting – pacing – his cue –and –

First act and curtain down, and Tom’s riding a wave of euphoria as he heads back to his dressing room for a much needed break. It’s going well, really well, and he couldn’t ask for anything more. There’s a magic in the movies, and a madness in the huge sets and wild scenes he’d been privileged to be a part of, but the livewire immediacy of theatre is where his roots are and, in all honesty, his heart. The play is a live thing carrying him and the audience along with it, breathing with it, and when he steps onto the stage he becomes someone else, lets the spirit of his character fill him up and scour him clean and it’s always a glorious wrench coming back in between.

It’s not until he opens his door that his brain catches up to the present and he realises he should have met Chris before now, should have collected him from his perch in the wings – but here he is, standing in the middle of the room, eyes wild and tail fluffed up like a bottle brush.

“What’s wrong?” Tom says, hastily stepping inside and shutting the door. Hopefully everyone else will be too busy and too excited to notice their absence. “Chris? Love?”

“You,” Chris spits, grimacing as he scents the air. “You – smell – _wrong_.”

Tom stares at him. “Wrong?” he says. “Wrong how?”

“You stink of anger – fear – _lies_ ,” Chris snarls and he’s really, really upset, more so than he has ever been around Tom before. _Shit_ , Tom thinks, casting his mind over the scenes he’s just been in. The fierce conflicts and emotional manipulation and the bitter interludes with his female co-stars. _I’m a fucking idiot_.

“I’m fine,” Tom says reassuringly. “I wasn’t really hurt, or angry. It’s just acting. I guess I get really into character, so it might smell like those things are happening to me, but I’m just pretending. I’m fine, honest.”

Chris rolls his eyes. “I _know_ that. I’ve been working around actors for years. I know my job. But I want you to understand – Tom, you _smell_ like you’re hurting, and I don’t – it’s upsetting for _me_. You can shrug it off in your head, but it’s on your skin and in the air, mixed in with the stress and the tension, and the smell of those others is all over you, and – it’s just – you’re my Owner and you – you’re my territory, my home and recently, I -”

He trails off and looks away, clearly uncomfortable. Tom does the same, belatedly remembering that his staring is probably making Chris feel worse. He didn’t – he didn’t think this through at all, and he feels horribly guilty for hurting Chris, and suddenly aware that he still understands very little of how Chris sees the world. He’s had trouble in the past, with partners who hated him playing romantic parts, but this is something else entirely, and he’s ashamed that he didn’t even have the courtesy to ask how this experience would affect Chris.

 _Obsessed_ , whispers a tiny voice in the back of his head, and he shoves it aside. Now is not the time.

“I’m sorry,” he says, wondering whether touching Chris would make this better or worse. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

“Let me mark you,” Chris says instantly. “You’re _mine_. I need you to smell like me.”

“Uh,” Tom says, “mark me how, exactly?”

“I need to groom you,” Chris says, shuffling closer, “and I want to mate you. Now.”

“Here?” Tom says weakly. “Can’t it wait until we get home?”

“ _No_ ,” Chris says, fluffing up with tension; “It has to be here. I need to – it’s been so long and – I want you here. Now.”

Tom looks at him, and then around the room in despair. There’s not even a lock for the door and they’re halfway through the interval - he’s got maybe five minutes before someone comes looking for him, and he really ought to be prepping for the next act.

“Chris, there’s no time,” he says desperately. “Just –”

“ _Now_ ,” Chris snarls, eyes wild and he lunges for Tom, frighteningly swift for such a big man. Tom doesn’t think: he jerks back instantly, out the door and into the corridor, and before he quite realises he’s done it, he slams the door in Chris’s face.

There’s a shocked silence and Tom stares at the badly painted wood, chest heaving. He’s not scared – Chris would never hurt him, _never_ , and that’s not why he bolted. It’s better to shut the door on Chris than shove him away, right? Better to put some space between them? But he can’t trust him to be rational right now, to act like a human would – and that thought sits like a stone over his heart. Chris _isn’t human_ and yet Tom has blithely gone along all the way through as if he were, and look where they are now.

“Tom,” Chris says from the other side of the door, his voice raw. “Tom, please.”

“I have to get back to work,” Tom replies, silently pleading for Chris to understand. “Just wait, okay? Just wait here, and I’ll come back as soon as I can, and you can do whatever you need to do.”

There’s a long silence and Tom glances over his shoulder, takes a step away from the door. Dammit, he just doesn’t have the _time_ –

“Fine,” Chris says, and there’s a wealth of emotion in that simple word. “I’ll stay here.”

“I’m sorry,” Tom says again, knowing how badly he’s screwed up, knowing that leaving Chris now is making it worse, but not having any choice about it. He has to get back out there. “I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Chris doesn’t reply to that at all, and Tom wants desperately to open the door, to at least give him a hug or something, but he knows if he does, he won’t come back out in time. So, with one last look at the door and a muttered curse, he stomps on the dread coiling in his belly and hurries back to the communal dressing area, putting everything aside and dragging his mind back into character, wondering what it says about his humanity that he’s capable of professionalism at a time like this.

***

Tom loses himself in the rest of the play, and he’s pleased with his continued acting at least as he smiles and waves and walks back to the dressing area after the curtain call. He’s half-hoping Chris will be there to greet him, but no: the room is empty, and it looks like no-one has been in or out. The post-show euphoria evaporates fast as he strips out of costume and washes away the make-up and sweat; he feels like he’s stalling, but he’s sure that going to see Chris still smelling of his co-stars won’t end well. There’s plenty of friendly shouting and banter going on through the corridors, and everyone wants to pop in and tell him how well first night has gone, and thankfully in the hubbub no-one seems to notice Chris’s absence.

Eventually though, he manages to get away, and the smile falls from his face as he approaches the little room he shut Chris in earlier.

“Chris?” he says, knocking lightly on the door. “Are you there? Can I come in?”

“Yes,” is the muffled reply, and Tom carefully opens the door. Chris has balled himself up in the corner, shoved halfway under the shelving – trying to hide, maybe? At any rate, he very obviously hasn’t moved from this room since Tom slammed the door on him, and Tom’s heart contracts painfully at how uncomfortable and unhappy Chris is.

“Oh, Chris,” he sighs, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder. “Are you ok?”

“No,” Chris says, chin tucked into his chest.

“Me neither,” Tom says, trying for lightness. He fails. “Come out, love. We need to talk.”

Chris slowly emerges from his corner and gets to his feet. There’s dust and fluff all over his hair and shoulders; Tom reaches up to brush it off, but Chris shies away with a scowl.

Great. “I’m sorry you’re upset,” Tom says. “I didn’t think this through – the play, the atmosphere, how it would make you feel. And I’m sorry I slammed the door in your face. But I had to get back to work. You can understand that, right?”

Chris takes a long moment to run his fingers through his hair, removing the worst of the fluff, and brushes his shoulders with deliberate slowness. “I do understand that,” he says once Tom’s nerves have been stretched to breaking point. “But I’m upset about more than just tonight.”

“I know things have been a bit rough,” Tom says with what he hopes is a disarming smile. “I’m a bit of a nightmare before a play. Like a bear with a sore head. But now we’re underway, things will be better.”

“No, they won’t. Not while you’re still doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Lying.”

“I’m not -”

“You’ve smelled wrong for weeks,” Chris says, gaze fixed on a spot six inches to the left of Tom’s face. “You talk to me and you’re smiling and saying nice things, but you smell anxious and afraid. I thought it was nerves about this job, but every time I got closer to you, it got worse, even when I tried to groom it away. You’ve been lying to me and I don’t know why.”

“I – I’m sorry,” Tom says. “I didn’t realise – I didn’t want to worry you. I haven’t said anything untrue to you, Chris. I didn’t think of it as lying.”

“It is to me,” Chris says sharply, ears pulling flat against his head. “Saying you’re fine when I can smell you’re not. Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong? It’s obvious it’s something about me.”

Tom opens and closes his mouth. He hadn’t thought Chris would be this perceptive, to be honest. What should he say?

“It’s not you,” he hedges. “Not like that. It’s just been a big change, you know, living with someone again, and getting used to you being my partner.”

“ _Liar_!” Chris shouts, head whipping round as he focuses on Tom, and his claws pop out as he slams a hand into the wooden door, leaving deep scratches in the peeling paint. Tom flinches instinctively. “Don’t lie to me,” Chris growls, pushing his face into Tom’s, pupils huge. “Not you! Do you know how many times I’ve heard that bullshit before? If you’re going to send me back, just tell me now!”

“What?” Tom says. “No, god, no – I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m never sending you back!”

“How am I supposed to believe that, when you say one thing and smell of another?”

“Well, smell me now then,” Tom says, and he doesn’t realise how weird the statement is until it leaves his mouth. “I want to keep you. I mean it.”

Chris sucks air in, lip curled, and after a tense moment gives a begrudging nod, still inches from Tom’s face. “Then tell me what’s going on! Why are you doing this?”

“Because I’m frightened!” Tom snaps, shoving Chris back, putting some space between them. “Because if anyone finds out how much I love you, they’ll take you away from me, for your own good – and because I’m terrified it’s true, that’s you’re obsessed with me, instead of being in love with me!”

“Why does it matter?” Chris says. “It’s just words! You don’t get to decide how I feel!”

“I’m not trying to!” Tom yells back, struggling to explain. “I just don’t understand how you feel. I’m frightened that I’m hurting you, that I’m not doing what’s best for you.”

Chris yowls inarticulately, which doesn’t exactly help with Tom’s point. “I’m not a child!” he spits. “And I’m not an animal! I want to be with you! I’m yours!”

“I get that,” Tom says desperately, and he does, but – “You’re not human either, though, and I feel like I’m not being fair to you.”

“This isn’t fair,” Chris points out instantly. “You’re hurting me because of what Jaimie said, because of that idiot Feline who came into my territory. It changed your mind. But I haven’t changed! I’m the same, and I still love you the same! Why do you care what they say? Why won’t you trust _me_? I know my own mind, Tom. I just want to be happy with you.”

“That’s what I want too!”

“Then stop thinking so much! And stop lying to me! Just look after me, and let me look after you. It’s that simple!”

It’s not, and Tom can’t pretend it is. “It’s not that easy for me, Chris. I love you, the same as I would if you were human, but it’s different for you. I know you care for me, and want to be with me, but that’s because you’ve imprinted on me as your Owner, and I don’t know if this is more than that, or because something’s gone wrong. You’re not supposed to love me! I don’t know if they made you capable of it!”

His words hang heavy in the air as Chris’s face twists in agony. “That’s what you think of me? That I’m – that I’m broken? A broken _thing_?”

“You know that’s not what I -”

“Do I?” Chris shouts, voice cracking. “I’m not human, Tom, but I know the bloody difference between feeling safe in a stable home and what I feel around you! That other Feline had a real problem, yeah, I can see that, but I don’t! I’m not chasing you through the streets when you go out! I miss you when you go away, but why is that so wrong? You miss me too! Why is the way you feel ok, but the way I feel something wrong?”

“It’s just – look, I don’t really understand Hybrids, so all I’ve got to go on is what Jaimie and that lot tell me, and they all say that Felines shouldn’t be attached like this. So I don’t know! I’m just worried!”

“ _You’re_ worried? I went from home to home because who I am wasn’t the right fit for their lifestyle, or I wasn’t what they wanted, or I was too much work. Every time! For years! Always given back because there’s something wrong with me. Even though I did exactly what the Agency trained me to do! And then I meet you, and I like you, and you actually like me, and everything is fine – except you start thinking about what’s wrong with me, just like everyone else. I don’t know if what I feel is the same as what you feel. I can’t know, and neither can you. But I’m not _obsessed_. I’m not _broken_. I’m upset and scared and miserable because I can’t trust what you say to me, and that’s got nothing to do with being a Feline – that’s because of you!”

Chris looks at him, shaking with emotion, his whole body curling towards Tom despite his fear and anger, and all Tom wants to do is hold him and stop him hurting. He loves him, and that part is simple. Does it matter what, exactly, Chris feels? How can you ever know what love is like for another person?

 _It’s not healthy_ , Jaimie said. But then again, neither is treating Chris like a thing, and punishing him for forming an emotional connection with someone. He’s not an animal, not a product, even if he was genetically engineered. He’s more than a collection of instincts and training – but that’s how Tom’s been thinking of him, ignoring what Chris has said and done, focusing on what everyone else says he should say and do.

“I’m sorry,” Tom says, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes. “I don’t think you’re broken or obsessed or any of those things. I’ve cocked everything up, and I’m really, truly sorry. I’m terrible at this.”

“Yes,” Chris says, obviously still upset. “But I’m not any better. I don’t know how to be yours, either. Just please – please talk to me. I’m part of us too. You don’t get to make my decisions for me, just because you have a contract with the Agency.”

“You’re right,” Tom says, deliberately dropping his voice to normal levels in an effort to inject some calm. “I want to live with you and be your partner, Chris, not just your Owner, and I know that you feel the same. I can’t help worrying about what other people might think, because it might mean we’re separated, and I couldn’t bear that – but I don’t want to take it out on you.”

“Okay,” Chris says, lowering his hackles, tail deflating a little. “I understand. But you have to remember you can’t hide what you’re feeling from me. You don’t have to change it - I just need you to tell me why you’re sad or scared.”

“I can do that,” Tom promises. “But the same goes for you. If you start feeling stressed out like this, tell me before we get to this point. We need to sort it out at home, not in the middle of my jobs.”

“I will,” Chris says with a nod, and they lapse into an awkward silence.

“And I don’t think you should come here with me again,” Tom says quietly after a moment, hating the way Chris’s shoulders hunch at his words. “It’s not good for either of us.”

“It’s my job to look after you,” Chris protests, but his heart isn’t in it. He sounds dull and resigned, and he turns his head so he’s not looking at Tom at all. “You need me.”

“I do,” Tom says firmly, catching Chris’s face between his palms. He doesn’t lock eyes with him, but he does bring their faces closer together, let’s his lips rest against his forehead. “Chris, I’m going to keep you. Forever. You’re not here just because I need a bodyguard. I can get another one of those. I don’t care what your job is supposed to be. You’re my – you’re _my_ home, ok? And I can’t hurt you like this.”

He can feel Chris’s eyelashes against his skin as he blinks. “I can still be your bodyguard,” Chris says, a note of hope creeping into his voice. “I want to protect you and be a part of what you do. I can bring you here and wait for you somewhere quiet and come get you once you’ve had a shower and washed all – all that _stink_ away.”

Tom exhales. Not an animal, but not human either. The trick is finding the balance that works for them. “That could work,” he says, letting Chris go so he can smile at him. “And you can mark me before we leave the flat, or as soon we get back, if you need to.”

“Both would help,” Chris admits. Well, ok, Tom can work with that, he can pace himself, build in some extra time for just the two of them.

“And as soon as I’ve finished my run,” Tom says, running his fingers through Chris’s mussed hair, “then I’m taking you on holiday.”

“Holiday?” Chris says, relaxing under Tom’s touch, the tension finally bleeding out of his frame.

“To the seaside,” Tom says, giving Chris the full workout, scratching at his velvety ears and under his chin, doing his best to coax a purr from him. “So you can go surfing and we can spend some time together, without anyone else, or any jobs to get in the way.”

“I’d like that,” Chris says, voice finally thickening as his chest begins to vibrate against Tom. “As long as you’re happy.”

“You make me happy,” Tom tells him. “You being happy. You being with me.”

Chris inhales slowly, lip curled as he tastes the air, and then he licks the pulse point at Tom’s throat, just to be sure. “Yes,” he says as Tom holds him tight. “You mean that.”

“Always,” Tom tells him seriously and Chris explodes into a full-blown purr as he throws himself at him, mouthing at Tom’s jaw and neck, balled hands kneading rhythmically at his chest. Bugger it, Tom decides, letting Chris push him up against the flimsy door, and he clumsily mimics both the licking and the pawing, doing his damnedest to rub his scent all over Chris.

It’s a messy affair, since neither of them have the patience to stop for a minute and get their clothes off, or even get into a more comfortable position on the floor: instead, Tom ends up flattened against the door, shirt open and trousers yanked halfway down, hanging on to Chris for dear life as he ruts against him, his cock hard and wet against the inside of Tom’s thighs. Chris is hunched over, licking repeatedly at Tom’s throat, teeth and stubble scraping across Tom’s skin; Tom’s own cock slides against Chris’s taut and sweat-slick stomach, and his hands are fisted in Chris’s hair, helping him stay upright as Chris grinds against him. He hasn’t ever seen Chris this desperate, never had anyone want him so frantically, the door creaking alarmingly as Chris throws his weight against him, as if he wants to eat Tom whole.

“Chris,” Tom says, and Chris’s eartips flick against his face at the sound of his voice. “Chris,” he repeats, voice cracking, “oh, god, Chris, I missed you,” and Chris responds with a wheedling cry, almost a whimper, a soft counterpoint to the power and roughness of his movement. “That’s it, love,” Tom encourages, letting Chris overwhelm him, “I’m here, I’m yours, and you’re mine -”

Chris comes with a grunt, flooding Tom’s thighs, head tucked under Tom’s chin as he pants raggedly. Tom kneads the base of his ears as he catches his breath, unable to resist pushing his hips against Chris just a little.

“I want to watch you come,” Chris says as he lifts his head, Tom’s hands sliding down to cup his cheeks as his moves. His pupils are huge, swamped with black, and he’s hyper-focused on Tom, still keyed up despite his orgasm.

“Okay,” Tom says, suddenly hit with a bright idea, and he trails his hands down his own chest and around his cock to gather up the come dripping down his thighs. Chris tracks every movement, nostrils flaring, and he remains tightly pressed against Tom as Tom smothers the creamy come over his own cock. Chris’s breath is hot on his face as he strokes himself, and between the intensity of Chris’s gaze and the fact that even he can smell the lust all over both their bodies, it’s not long before he’s coming too, gasping between Chris’s arms.

“Better?” he murmurs, slumping against the door as Chris licks him enthusiastically, starting at the neck and moving down, either cleaning Tom up and exalting in the mess, Tom isn’t sure. Either way, his purr resonates through him, and he’s all but buzzing against Tom, truly happy, and once he’s licked up their mingled come and come back up he even volunteers a truly filthy kiss and Tom would swear he’s on the edge of purring himself.

“Time to go home,” Tom says, unable to stop touching Chris – little possessive touches, across his arms and chest and face. It feels like a lifetime since he was just touching Chris like this, without distance between them, and Chris obviously feels the same, brushing against Tom as they dress, and walking pressed closely against him as they make their way to the exit. Everyone else has already gone, but they’ve left scribbled post it notes all over the mirrors – _great job!_ and _see you tomorrow!_ mostly, but there are a few that have Tom’s ears glowing. The walls are rather thin, but luckily it seems that people have assumed it was a, er, private celebration of the success of the first night. He’s going to be ribbed about this _forever_.

Despite being nearly an hour later than he normally would be, there’s still a small crowd waiting for him at the stagedoor. Chris swiftly corrals them into something resembling a queue and takes up position at Tom’s side as he smiles and signs and poses for selfies. It’s always lovely to meet fans and he’s happy enough doing it, but he didn’t really expect this many, and what with the play and the emotional upheaval he’s tiring fast. At first Chris is more intent on the crowd than Tom, and so is oblivious, but after a particularly forced laugh his head snaps round and he focuses purely on Tom.

Chris’s eyes narrow for a moment and then he steps forward, half-turning to give Tom some shelter, and he takes over some of the small talk with each excited fan, subtly but firmly moving them on once they’ve had a few minutes of Tom’s time. The queue begins to move faster, and soon there’s only a handful left and Tom can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Smile – sign – hug – three, four, and finally, the last one, a girl so tiny she barely comes up to his waist and he bends himself nearly in half to get in the photo with her. She’s thrilled though, and thanks him and Chris at some length for staying until they got to her, until Chris steps in and gently shoos her back.

“Thank you, everyone,” Chris announces, not so subtly putting an arm around Tom to pull him away.

“Hey, wait,” someone shouts – an older man, who’d had a stack of programmes for Tom to sign, all with rather generic greetings. To sell on ebay, probably, but he’d been friendly and enthusiastic about Tom’s performance, so he’d let his suspicions slide, and Chris had moved him on just like the rest. He’s gone round the back of the groups of people comparing photos and snapping Tom as he finished up, and has re-joined the queue behind the tiny girl. “Just a few more minutes -”

“Thank you,” Chris repeats, loudly, stepping away from Tom to open a path to the waiting car – a luxury Tom is suddenly very grateful for, since he really doesn’t feel like dealing with the underground tonight, or waiting for a taxi.

“Hey - ” the man yells again, pushing through the knots of fans. “Tom – oi, Tom!”

Tom doesn’t respond, following Chris – but then there’s a hand on his elbow and he pulls away sharply. He doesn’t want a repeat of the trouble he had at the _Othello_ screenings -

Chris swivels on the spot, ears back, fangs bared and he growls threateningly.

Oh, no.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Tom says, palms up, trying to push himself between Chris and the fan, desperately afraid that this will trigger Chris’s protective instincts – but he’s underestimated him again.

“It’s not,” Chris says, very slowly and very clearly, attention focused on the suddenly wilting man. “You have to respect Mr. Hiddleston’s personal space and boundaries. Grabbing him like that is unacceptable and will not be tolerated. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” squeaks the man, shuffling backwards into the suddenly silent group. “I’m sorry, really sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

“Thank you for your co-operation,” Chris says, pulling Tom towards him, his bulk a solid wall between Tom and the crowd. “That will be all for tonight.”

There’s a sudden murmuring of apologies and a few faint shouts of ‘we love you, Tom!’, but mostly the group seems embarrassed and keen to disperse, and in moments Chris has bundled Tom through them and into the waiting car. The driver rapidly pulls away, and the very short journey is mostly taken up with Chris arranging a new pick-up point and time with the company, to avoid being trapped like that again for the rest of the run. Tom just sits there, nodding when required to, a little shellshocked about what just happened. Thank god Chris was there; he’d never expected anything like that, not for stage door – perhaps it’s his own fault, for not thinking about the number of people who might wait for him, after the big press occasions recently?

“Stay in the car a moment,” Chris orders as they pull up to the flat, watching the dark street carefully before getting out and doing a lap of the car, ears swivelling and pupils huge as he checks everything out. It’s all quiet, but he nevertheless sweeps Tom from the car into the building and quickly into the flat, keeping him tucked under his arm, and it’s not until the door is safely closed and locked that he relaxes and nuzzles at Tom’s cheek, his hold settling to a comforting embrace.

“Are you ok?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tom replies, a wave of exhaustion slamming into him as he sags against Chris. It’s been a very long night, and suddenly, he really, really doesn’t want to talk anymore. “Thanks.”

There’s no subtlety as Chris sniffs him, checking his truthfulness, or perhaps his emotional state, but Tom’s too tired to care, and gratefully buries his face into Chris’s shoulder. “’M so tired,” he mumbles. “Bed, yeah?”

“Sure,” Chris says, and mercifully keeps taking over, stripping Tom with far less fuss than usual and steering him to bed without any of his normal playfulness. He rolls Tom into a substantial blanket nest before doing a last round of the flat, pacing out their territory and checking the doors and windows. Tom’s already slipping into sleep as he returns to the bed and settles next to him, curling around the mound of bedding and pressing his nose to Tom’s neck.

“Love you,” Tom mutters automatically.

There’s a pause. “I love you,” Chris says in the darkness. “I mean it.”

“I know,” Tom says, at peace for the first time in weeks, and once again the quiet between them is just as warm and comfortable as he is, safe and sound in Chris’s arms.

***

It all goes smoothly, after that – well, mostly. There’s the unfortunate incident with the ring of love-bites, which in fairness Tom had thought would be covered by the costume, only for the make-up artist to spot it peeking from the waistband of his trousers when he stretched up. She caterwauled nearly as loudly as Chris had, particularly as it was curtain up in two minutes and she didn’t have time to fix it, but really, it all added to character; that’s what he told the director, anyway, once he’d finished apologising to poor Sarah. There’s a few minor hiccups with the play, which everyone just rolls with – it’s a good team, a great team – and a few occasions post-show where Chris’s patience is pushed to breaking point, as he waits to drag Tom home and claim him, but otherwise, their new routine of, ah, Chris’s happy time before they leave and mutual grooming when they get home keeps everything ticking over nicely.

What with this and that, it ends up being late September before they can get away on the long-promised holiday, what with work and various things, but luckily it’s something of an indian summer this year, and it’s still blue skies and sunshine as they pull up to a cosy little cottage on the coast. Tom had suggested Cornwall, with an eye to the best beaches for Chris, but after the continued chaos of stagedoor and Tom having to give it up after a few weeks, Chris had vetoed Newquay as too busy and too obvious a place for them to have any peace. Instead, they’ve ended up in what Tom would politely call the arse-end of nowhere: a tiny, curving bay with a car park, a pub, a tiny shop closed more often than its open and a handful of houses clinging to the cliffs on a B-road between somewhere-or-other and yet-another-tiny-village.

It’s so far off the beaten track there isn’t even a surf hire shop, despite the inviting beach, but Chris has taken care of that too, as it turns out the Agency keeps a storage garage for each Hybrid, so that they’re not constantly dragging their belongings around with them. Chris had rented a van and trundled up to fetch his board and wetsuit and whatever else is required for surfing - Tom has never tried it, and despite the lovely weather has no desire to jump into the freezing Atlantic to give it a go – and had come back with a couple of boxes labelled with pre-printed labels: Hemsworth, C., property of. The contents turned out to be no more exciting than a handful of DVDs and games, most of which Tom had already bought for him, and a variety of formalwear tailored to fit; still, the look on Chris’s face when Tom told him to bring all his stuff home was reward enough. The flat’s second bedroom is now full of Chris’s things, the bed long since put away, and at Tom’s urging there’s even a handful of photos of Chris and his brothers dotted around the bookshelves. Chris cares more for the scent of the flat than its décor, but to Tom it feels a bit more like _their_ home now, like it should be.

It’s not a patch on this place, mind: Chris has outdone himself, booking an old fisherman’s’ cottage tastefully restored to a holiday home for two. It’s all blue and white and nautical themes, with an old-fashioned telescope for stargazing – no streetlights here! – and a real fire, stacked with plenty of logs just in case. The views are stunning, especially from the little terrace off the kitchen, and since its built partway into the hill, completely private once the front door is closed. A perfect little getaway and Tom couldn’t be happier.

Chris, however, needs a little time to adjust, and keeps Tom’s scarf on despite the heat as he paces out this new territory and investigates every nook and cranny. He settles far quicker than he did that first day in Tom’s flat, but just to be sure, they stay in that first evening, and Tom makes sure he is constantly on hand to reassure Chis with his scent and touch. It’s a slow, gentle coupling that night, with Chris letting Tom take the lead, and plenty of nibbling and wet, open-mouthed kisses along each other’s bodies.

The next morning, Chris is up at the crack of dawn, bright-eyed and quite literally bushy-tailed, wriggling into his wetsuit and gulping down his breakfast with barely contained anticipation. Tom yawns all the way down to the beach and is frankly useless as Chris takes the van as close to the water as he can and unloads his board.

“You’ll stay here,” Chris says, less a question than a demand, and Tom nods obligingly until Chris hands over the thermos of tea and pack of biscuits. It’s another warm day but the wind is brisk; all the better for surfing, Tom supposes, but he chooses to stay huddled in the back of the van with the doors open rather than set up camp on the beach itself. The world from the van doors is an endless, impossible blue, tipped with white: the crashing waves merging with the cloud-streaked sky, and Chris a rapidly receding black smudge as he paddles out. There’s absolutely no-one else here, which is probably a good thing as Chris leaps up onto the board, hair and tail streaming in the wind.

A Feline surfing, Tom thinks, sipping his tea. Now I _have_ seen everything.

The wetsuit clings to every curve, every muscle, Chris lithe and inhumanely graceful as he catches the next wave, and Tom can’t take his eyes off him as he moves through the water. Chris knows it too and makes a point of waving to Tom, arching and posing on his board and generally being an insufferable show-off; still, as Jaimie said before, he really is something to see in the water, and so obviously delighted at being able to swim and surf that he’s just mesmerising. He has all the poise and elegance of a cat, coupled with the athleticism of a powerful athlete, and of course he’s just gorgeous, and between Chris and the beautiful landscape, Tom can feel all the lingering stress just melting away. He has nothing to do and no-one else to worry about him: it’s him and Chris and the sea and the sky. Bliss.

***

It’s a good thing it’s a quiet area, because Chris doesn’t come out of the water until nearly lunchtime, by which point Tom has made five or six runs back to the cottage for more tea and books and, a bit belatedly, some sunscreen. The beach is deceptive, for while he’s been curled up in a thick hoodie and blanket, he’s still caught the sun across his cheeks and forehead, and can feel himself getting pinker by the minute. Chris, on the other hand, is practically glowing, tanned and damp and grinning like a mad thing.

“Thank you,” he purrs, pressing himself against Tom in the back of the van. “Thank you so much.”

“I’m sorry it took so long to get you back to the beach,” Tom says, but Chris is keen to show his gratitude anyway; getting him out of the wetsuit is much more complicated than getting into it, but at least it gives Tom time to slam the van doors shut and make a hasty bed out of the towels and picnic rug before Chris bowls him over, his mouth so much hotter than his sea-chilled hands and face.

A quick refuel of sandwiches and sardines after – for Tom and Chris, respectively – and more hot drinks, and the afternoon continues much as the morning had. It’s really rather hot now, especially for so late in the year, and Tom takes a stroll up and down the beach as Chris continues to surf, peering into rockpools and drawing silly cartoons of him and Chris in the sand. His footprints intersect with a set of paws and following boots; the dog-walker must have passed along the beach when Tom and Chris were, uh, occupied. They continue around the cove and along a thin spit, and if Tom squints he can see off in the distance a much larger beach, with tiny blobs running up and down and what might be a kite. Their beach remains deserted though, until about 4 o’clock, and then they’re joined by a couple of kids and their parents, who nod a greeting to Tom but take themselves off to a patch of rock and sand at the other end of the bay.

They don’t pay much attention to Chris until he comes bounding up the beach and flops down next to Tom to be groomed. Chris’s hair is matted with saltwater and his tail is even worse, but he seems indifferent to the curious stares of the family as Tom combs through it, purring loudly and kneading at the sand. As far as Tom can tell no-one is taking pictures, but the scrutiny puts him off a little and after a little coaxing, he gets Chris to admit that its been a good long day of surf and now it is time for tea.

“Bacon?” Chris says hopefully, sliding his claw-marked surfboard into the van as they pack up for home. “Or steak?”

“Hmm,” Tom says. “Well, we are on holiday. Steak and steak for you, love?”

“Perfect!” Chris exclaims, almost bowling Tom over with a hug, and Tom can’t resist catching his face in his hands and nuzzling their cheeks together.

“It’s good to see you so happy,” he says.

“You too,” Chris replies, blinking slowly at him.

Tom cooks the steak, preferring his more cooked than Chris tends to do it, while Chris showers and gets changed. It’s too windy to sit out and eat on the terrace – it is Autumn, despite the sunshine – but after the main course, they do huddle together with a blanket while Tom enjoys his hot apple pie and custard and Chris makes his way through a packet of chicken nibbles. As the sun sets, the sky fills with a multitiude of sea birds, wheeling overhead as they make their way to their roosts, intermingled with the starlings and sparrows of the hedgerows. Chris follows their flight with urgent whimpers, chittering in the back of his throat as Tom lazily scratches at the base of his ears.

Given how busy he’s been today, Tom is expecting Chris to fall asleep almost instantly, but either the birds or the food have keyed him up again, and they end playing a ridiculous mash-up of tag and catch, as Tom throws the ball down the garden and Chris goes head-over-heels chasing it, returning to Tom but then pouncing on him before he can throw it again. Tom runs away, ball in hand, zigging and zagging in the narrow garden in a futile attempt to escape as Chris hurls himself at his heels; he ends up flat on his back and throwing the ball wildly in any direction, Chris springing up to grab it again and restarting the madness. They play until it’s too dark for Tom to see, much to Chris’s disappointment: stalking Tom in the dark is apparently just as fun as ball-chasing, but after being bowled over half a dozen times, Tom has had enough.

“Bed,” he says firmly, and Chris grumpily complies, taking his revenge by pining Tom to the crisp white bed and grooming him head to toe with slow, languid licks for a good half-hour while Tom is reduced to his own urgent whimpers as Chris refuses to let him take his boxers off, and pointedly ignores everything the damp fabric clings to.

“Bastard,” Tom says, all but mewling, and Chris is far too smug when he finally removes the damn things only to repeat the slow licking at Tom’s hole and balls. When he finally gets round to easing in to Tom’s willing flesh, Tom is sobbing and clawing at the bedsheets, desperate to be fucked, and he’s so over-sensitive he comes with a scream the moment Chris gets a hand on his drooling cock. Tom can only lie there in sated bliss as Chris rocks into him, as steady as the tide beating on the rocks below, fingers wound tightly around Tom’s and hair falling into his eyes as he licks at Tom’s mouth.

“Love you,” Tom says, deliciously fucked out and yet wanting this to last forever, and Chris breathes the same over his lips, bodies locked together until Chris can take no more and comes with a few rough thrusts. After a quick and frankly half-heated clean up, they curl up in the warm bed with the curtains open, blinking sleepily at the stars, so bright they don’t need the telescope, watching the constellations spin lazily overhead and dance behind their eyes as they drift into sleep.

***

The next day they wake to a change in the weather: the rain has rolled in and the sky is heavy and overcast, a grey, grim, drizzly kind of day. It’s a perfect day to try out the fire laid in the grate, in fact, and after a few false starts they get a steady fire going, filling the cottage with the smell of woodsmoke and a deliciously drowsy warmth. Chris splays out in front of the fireplace, belly-up on a nest of blankets, so close that Tom has some serious concerns about his hair catching fire, and proceeds to sleep for most of the morning and then on into the afternoon, occasionally shifting position, but mostly content to nap and let Tom pet him. Tom settles next to him, building a cushion fort and arranging a stack of books within easy reach. He consumes an obscene amount of tea and chocolate biscuits as he ploughs through his reading, and it’s only when Chris wakes up and starts nagging for his dinner that he reluctantly emerges from his cocoon.

It’s a five minute drive down to the pub in the bay for fish and chips for the two of them, and yet by the time he gets back with the warm newspaper bundle in hand, Chris is howling as if he has been left for dead, and he drapes himself over Tom and grabs at the food like the world’s most infuriating limpet.

“Bugger off!” Tom laughs, doing his best to ignore Chris’s cries, and he manages to prise him off long enough to serve up two gorgeous pieces of battered cod and a bag of thick-cut chips generously salted and drenched in vinegar. Chris turns his noise up at the chips, despite Tom’s scoffing, but he wolfs down the cod and the extra portions of mackerel and eel Tom had bought from the shop next door.

There’s bugger all on the telly, so at Chris’s urging they end up watching a repeat of a wildlife documentary Tom dimly remembers from a few years back. Chris is openly fascinated by the panning shot of a seabird colony, eyes huge and tail-tip twitching, and Tom soon sinks into a half-doze, idly running his fingers through Chris’s hair. Chris purrs happily and stretches out alongside Tom, all the better to be petted and fussed and to nuzzle against whatever part of Tom he can reach.

Tom’s warm and well-fed, and he has someone he loves curled up here with him, someone who shows him, every day, how much he wants and needs him. It might not be exactly the relationship he always imagined for himself, but then, it’s a damn sight better than the ones he has had before, and he knows Chris would say the same. They’re happy together. What more could you want on a rainy afternoon?

He glances over at the bulging envelope propped up against the lamp, in easy reach for when they go to bed. He’s still not quite sure how he’s going to ask, but all the adoption paperwork is there, ready for Chris to read and sign – it’s not a proposal he ever imagined himself making, and it’s not the ring and big romantic gesture he wants it to be, but it’s the first step to becoming Chris’s legal guardian, if that’s what Chris wants to do. It’s a big conversation and an even bigger commitment, but it’s the only way to make sure that no-one can take Chris away from him – or him away from Chris. But sitting down and figuring it all out honestly with Chris is tomorrow’s task; tonight is just for being curled up together, warm and cosy.

 _At last, the albatross’s mate returns_ , the telly intones solemnly. _The couple will stay together for the rest of their lives, returning each year to this small island, to greet each other with the same joyful display. If one dies while out at sea, the other will still come here each year, to wait faithfully, and will not take another mate. If love, as we understand it, exists in nature then surely this must be it._

Chris yawns and rubs his cheek against Tom’s hand. It surely is, Tom thinks fondly. It surely is.

**Author's Note:**

> See my [catboy Chris tumblr tag](http://amberfox17.tumblr.com/tagged/catboy-chris) for art :3


End file.
